The End, The Truth, & The Aftermath
by detective ink
Summary: Three, perhaps four, part death!fic. Major angst super sad! AU Dean, John and Sam. Demons killed, demons taunting, John and Sam left to find life after death. If read, please review!
1. Part One: The End

Title: Part One: The End

Author: Esoteric Ink aka: 8smallfan8

Genre: Angst; Death!fic; Tragedy

Pairings: None

Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own the boys nor the story - but I do own the computer that allows me to create such fictions ;)

Author's Note: AU fic, characters were moved around the chess board accordingly.

Feedback: Is the greatest feeling in the universe. And who wouldn't want that?

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The End.

Sam stood firm, his eyes locked on the wall just before him. His body, dirty and worn from the sleepless nights he knew lay ahead. Yet there he remained, raging every emotion inside of him completely alone. He said nothing; the sounds of deafening silence torturing him with every second that passed. This was all Sam could do to not curse God and all the angels he now realized, never existed.

He wondered, how could this have happened to them? To him? But Sam knew. Somewhere deep within the abyss of his guilt ridden soul, he knew it was always meant to be this way.

Looking down, he caught a glimpse of _his _hand, bruised and broken. Dried blood staining his fingers and painting his nails a crimson color of death. Sam wanted to reach down, to touch that sore and lifeless hand, but its cool temperature would shock the horrid truth into his veins, and he wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not again.

So he stood, unwavering and yet weakened by this latest blow. His will, now icing over with a cold, damned passion for a future not worth living to see, Sam felt as though he had already lost his life. Hell, losing _him_ was reason enough to lose himself entirely, but that wasn't what his older brother would have wanted for him. No, Sam knew Dean would have found a way to return, if only to kick his ass for being so selfish.

So Sam did what his mind pleaded: he looked back down, this time taking in _his _entire body. This moment was the last for Sam's strength, as his legs buckled and his knees hit the hardwood floor beside the mattress. Reaching out, he held on to his brother's arm, shaking, screaming and cursing Dean's heart to begin its metronome if only just one more time.

The younger Winchester knew this kind of self torment would offer him neither satisfaction nor absolution, but his heart_ needed_ to grieve. To let the horror of the last twenty-four hours reach him in ways he had hoped it wouldn't. Sam hadn't known the depth of fear he held inside over this exact situation until it finally happened, but he now knew that everything they had done as brothers and hunters, had lead up to this moment. Beyond a reasonable doubt or any thoughts of destiny and fate, Sam's heart bled for his brother. For he knew there was never a way out for Dean.

That thought, combined with all the others, forced the air from Sam's body, and his blood began to rage speedily beneath his skin. He felt the sudden anger, the loss and the agonizing pain becoming too much for him in that moment, so Sam did the only thing he could: he hit Dean.

Hard.

Sam was angry his older brother left him. No goodbye, no hug or moment of truth shared between these two men; two men who had walked the streets of hell more than a few times together. There was nothing for Sam's heart to fall back on during the hard times that weren't too far from where he was now. There was just the hollow shell of of what was once Dean Winchester, lying before him.

No handshake or smart mouthed comment. No tears or faded last words of unconditional love.

There was nothing.

Sam's fist landed against Dean's chest one last time before his eyes finally saw what his arms were doing. It was disrespect, and a foul move by this young, bruised man who had never felt so abandoned. But it was all he could do to let God know, that his heart was crushed and hope was a faded dream of the past.

Sliding down the side of the cold, metal bed rail, Sam cupped his mouth and closed his eyes in a fit of post traumatic panic. "Oh God," he whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. Shaking his head, he nearly punched the tears from his cheeks as he stood up and hurriedly walked away.

Away from the death and the bitter truth of what was now behind him. Gasping, he reached the door and slammed his fists against the old wood, continuing on until his hands were raw and bloodied; a release Sam felt need be attained.

Leaning his forehead against the door, Sam felt his heart race and knew he had to exit the room before the business end of a bullet found its way to him willingly. Not looking back, he swung the door open and ran out into the blackened forest, the cool night air enveloping him and gifting him a piece of life he regretfully accepted.

Standing, Sam ceased his crying and attempted to focus on the world surrounding him. He heard the trees, swaying gently behind and around him; the silence, telling him that all of God's creations were peacefully sleeping; then the low drum of his own heartbeat, steadily thumping within his chest as proof of his existence.

Looking back to the open door behind him, his face as solid as stone, Sam knew things would never be the same. The demon had taken Dean's life only moments after _he_ had ended its own. A vicious, earth shattering attack that slowed time and broke all laws of physics, Sam was comforted with the knowledge that Dean never knew what hit him.

Closing his eyes, tears began to stain Sam's face as he thought of his brother's last words, his last facial expression. His last everything. _"It's over Sammy,"_ was the final truth of man who fought his entire life, only to lose it all at an untimely and painful end.

Walking slowly back into the small cabin, Sam reached for his phone: it was time to call their father and let him know his eldest son had passed away. Kicking a chair over beside Dean's current resting place, Sam nodded to no one's vision, and placed the phone to his ear.

It was the most difficult moment of his entire life, hearing his father's hopeful voice; a man of obedience and passion, but Sam knew there was no other way to the truth then to go straight through it.

"Dad," Sam choked out, tears brimming and nearly escaping his eyes for the millionth time in less then a day. "Dad, I need you...to come to..." John cut Sam's voice off with a grunt, and not a word was said for the next five minutes.

John uttered a simple, "I will find you," reply and with that, the line cut off. Sam threw his phone against the wall, just hard enough to get another ounce of frustration out but light enough that no damage was interred, and slumped lazily back against the seat.

"I...don't know if you can hear me...or if you're okay wherever you are, but...but I..." Punching the mattress, Sam jumped from his chair and screamed again. How he was supposed to wait patiently in a room with his dead brother, without offering any words of comfort for neither himself nor the ears of an afterlife spirit. _If_ Dean_ was_ now of a supernatural sort to begin with.

Not knowing what to do, what to say or if there was anything that _could_ be done, Sam sat back down and closed eyes. "This is the end Dean," he whispered, leaning close and taking in the stillness of the bloody man before his eyes. "This is the end."

With that, Sam knew there was nothing more to be had then time. Time to wait for his father to discover the truth of what happened. Time to wait until he saw his brother once again, wherever that may be. Time to wait until his own death had found him.

If nothing else ever came from Dean's passing, however brutal and heartbreaking it was and will always feel, it offered Sam something he hadn't ever foreseen: the end of a life he never wanted, unless his brother was there, fighting along side him.

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Thanks for the feedback! It's very much appreciated!

e.i.


	2. Part Two: The Truth

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Part Two: The Truth

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John's truck barreled down the highway, its destination unknown and unfamiliar to the road beneath its thick tires. His son's voice had told him all he needed to know, and his heart followed in urgent pursuit of a truth he wasn't ready to acknowledge. 

"Dean," he whispered to himself, over and over, almost willing his first born to have made it through the darkness unscathed. But John knew. There hidden inside Sam's shaky voice, was a horrible scene waiting just up ahead; John's heart having never deceived him in the past.

What would he do upon seeing his son, motionless and lost to a world who never loved him as it should have? John's mind raced along with his speedometer and looking down at the dirty center console, he reached for his phone. Dialing Sam's number, John waited in absolute silence.

"Where are you?" John said, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible. Sam, still alone and torturing his mind with the many ways he _could_ have saved Dean, answered with a grunted "hello." His nonverbal shock still withstanding, mind focused elsewhere, all Sam was able to do was offer arbitrary directions to where he was.

John, his patience now wearing thin, rounded the next corner, tires leaving behind their mark in an effort to get there as fast as mechanically possible. Going from Sam's landmarks and descriptions, he had only moments left until he reached the obscure location. "Come on, come on, come on..." he urged, hitting the steering wheel with his hands continuously, a constant rhythm of fear building. He had never been in such a hurry, when suddenly, it hit him: Dean was dead, why rush?

Slowing down, he pulled off to the side of what was already a concealed back road and cut the power to the engine. Leaning back, he gripped the wheel with both hands, fingers wrapped tightly around the worn leather. Shaking his head from left to right, he did this to erase the onslaught of memories; an outcry of hidden emotion that John had never before dealt with when it came to Dean.

_Dean's birth into this nightmare of a world; how his eyes lit up upon seeing the two proud owners whom had spok__en so gently to him in the womb; his first laugh, cry; the day Dean learned how to walk; schools, houses, friends that had come and gone; his first girlfriend that Dean had met before his first hunt with John; his first everything. _

Sighing outwardly, John wiped a single tear of sadness from his cheek and started back towards his boys once again. He knew this was what hell was, losing a child - but a feeling of relief swept over when he had heard Sam's voice; an instant assurance that his younger son had made it unharmed.

Finally arriving to the place John never thought he would live to see, he jumped out of the truck and squared away his clothing. It wasn't a long drive, but his hurried manners of getting into and driving to where he now was had taken its toll on his body, but mentally and physically. Finishing his momentary stall tactic, John looked ahead and saw the door open, with Sammy sitting quietly on the cabin's steps. Walking slowly over to his only son, John's heart broke; he couldn't fathom a time where this feeling of regret and overwhelming grief could metastasize into reality.

"Sammy?" he said, placing a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. "What happened?" John felt the subtle shake ripple throughout Sam's body at the memory of his previous night's battle, and unsure of what to say or do next, he stood motionless, waiting. Waiting to hear about the bastard demon that had taken more from his heart and soul than any other living or dead entity. Waiting to go see his boy's body. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He knew of no other action more heartbreaking, then that of his _waiting_ in this agonizing moment.

"What...what did the demon do to him?" John asked, his head turning in to face the small room behind him.

No.

Snapping his head back around, he knew he wasn't ready to see Dean yet. Not now. Hell, not ever if he had the choice. But he owed it to himself and his oldest to grieve both inwardly as well as out. Whether he wanted to or not, John needed to be there for his son, regardless to either party's understanding."Sammy, what happened?" His voice lost no assertiveness and had not wavered once since his arrival, but Sam couldn't seem to utter one single word since he hung up the phone. He didn't know what to say to make what his eyes had seen, right. There _were _no words to change the past, and there never would be. Looking up at the deep gaze of his father's eyes, Sam frowned and shook his head.

"He's...gone Dad, what does it matter how it happened?" Standing and wiping John's hand from his shoulder, Sam turned back to the cabin and proceeded to walk in, slow and steady. John knew this was the routine Sam had been doing all along, since he had brought Dean's body to this tiny hole-in-the-wall cabin.

Finally, the courage to cross the threshold of the broken doorway came to John, and he made his way in silently, his mind a blurry vision of what is and what he had hoped wasn't. Closing his eyes, he sighed heavily, his heart racing just beneath his chest. He had to remain strong for Sam, for Dean even.

But _how_?

Stopping his forward momentum abruptly, Sam turned to see his father frozen solid. "Dad?" he said, reaching out slightly, his hand trembling the higher his arm had lifted it. John's eyes were set on the limp body a mere four feet from his current position, and fearing any sudden movement, he did nothing; shutting down and blocking Sam's words from what was at the heart of the truth.

Sam, afraid to speak yet again but more fearful of what would happen if he didn't, moved closer to John, but stood just off to his right. "Dad, it's Dean. It's your son," he said, the desperation in his voice so vast, John's gaze finally found its way to him. "Go to him," were Sam's next words, so simple yet containing a weight unknown to most men, he himself included.

Nodding, eyes closed once more, John's feet brought his body closer still to the bed. Finally, sensing as though he were as near to the rail as he could bring himself, John looked down slowly. Unsure of his expectations but certain of the pain wracking his soul with guilt, he saw the only thing he had done wrong by in this world:

Dean.

His vision locked onto one of Dean's bloodied hands first; John reached out and wrapped his fingers around it, the icy feeling confirming what his mind fought so hard to be artificial. "…Dean," he choked out, his knees finally giving into to the intense pressure of his loss, buckled and he fell against the bed in a hurried heap.

That first cry was the hardest for a man like John Winchester, but like many other firsts, he swore this would be the last. Holding onto his boys broken remains, his tears all but drowned his sorrow. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, shaking his head from right to left, just enough for Sam to see.

Standing up swiftly and letting Dean's hand drop back down onto the cheap mattress, John pedaled himself out of the room and into the cool night air.

"We need to burn him Sammy," John said, the tone in his voice restored to its demanding nature. "Help me make the pyre, now Sammy."

Sam couldn't believe it; couldn't understand it. "Dad…you've barely said two words and now you want to burn him? Just like that?" Standing toe to toe with his father Sam had done in the past, but tonight he wouldn't back down if it was the last thing he would ever do. "No. I'm not ready," the younger Winchester stated, turning his back on John and slamming the cabin door behind him; the frame damn near crumbling from the force of impact.

Pacing, Sam searched for a release of the anger that had manifested so quickly from his father's disrespectful actions. Stealing a glance every so often in the direction of his brother's momentary resting place, Sam felt the shift in reasoning and knew John had been right: they needed to let Dean go.

Opening the entrance once more for his father, Sam found him sitting quietly on the steps, his cheeks stained from the many tears a man in his position was meant to have. "I'm sorry," Sam choked out, his emotions getting the best of him. "It's time."

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TBC -  



	3. Part Three: The Aftermath

PART III: The Aftermath

Both Winchesters remained seated there at the footsteps to a decision neither was prepared to make. This moment had come upon them in such rapid succession of their greatest hunting achievement; both men had yet to fully grasp the gravity of such a loss.

So they remained, still and broken. The sides of their arms touching one another, bodies so still; eyes unfocused and watery from their many tears; looking from one side of the emptiness surrounding them indirectly over to the next.

"I...I don't know what to do now, Dad."

John heard Sam's words but inside him, the panic raged, a self sustaining fire burning furiously out of control. "I'll be right back Sammy. You stay here with your brother, got it?" he said, John's eyes locked on the sad young man with a dark passion so vicious and cold, a chill visibly surged throughout his youngest son's body.

"Where are you going? Dad...I can't...I ca...stay here...with...Dean..." The words were lost as Sam's mouth clamped shut, his head falling between his shoulders swiftly and crooked by the weight of his brother's death. John stopped, his back to the wind and the cabin that housed his dead son, and knew he couldn't leave.

Shouldn't leave.

Turning back, he walked over to where Sam had still been seated. Kneeling, he placed a hand on the young man's arm and squeezed tightly. "Sam, I need you to stay here with Dean. Ok? I don't want your brother to be alone. Now, I know you can do this son, and I need you to do this. I won't be long."

Standing, John brushed his hand through Sam's hair and started back on course: the road leading to his truck. Sam followed his father's brooding figure until the forest swallowed him with its unmerciful darkness, and in that immediate closure, his eyes slammed shut. The silence was for a moment peaceful to Sam, but the angry roar of John's truck broke his reverie, the truth having encased his blackened thoughts once more.

Taking the steps towards his personal heart break hotel, Sam stood in the small room and closed the door behind him.

Braving his fears, Sam lowered his body down and seated himself this time on the bed, just below Dean's lifeless and bloodied knees. Sighing, Sam couldn't bring his eyes to look at the body for the thousandth time that night, but inwardly, there were questions overlapped by cold, hurtful answers.

Answers that Sam knew he would never hear aloud.

"I remember, when we were kids," Sam began, playing with a cracked and worn mattress button, his mind going into overload with the memories and tales from a time long before this moment. "When we were kids, you were always there. I...I remember you pushed me off my bike when I first learned how to ride. Told me to stop cryin' and get up, because that's how life would treat me. But you didn't. Even then, when you knocked me down, I saw the heartache in your eyes over such a simple life lesson, man. There were other times too, ya know, times... when I would catch you taking the blame for something stupid I had done, just so Dad would lay off of me. You...you were always there for me, with me. Around me. You were the one who taught me how to hunt, how to stay alive even in the worst case scenario's. You were th-," Sam stopped, his eyes pooling with the salty water as his body shook from a pain too great to continue on.

He just needed Dean to_ know_. To know how much he loved him, to know how much he needed him back. Moving his body closer, Sam laid a hand over Dean's chest and whispered, "I don't know what I'm gonna do now Dean..."

XXXXX . XXXXX

John found himself at the crossroads, alone and anxious. His personals grouped together in the small tin box, John dug the hole and screamed for the bastard demon to show its face. "Come on you bitch! I know you can hear me!" His words went deaf into the night wind, and standing there, he knew this was his punishment. He knew they were refusing him in the most desperate of times.

"Please..." he whispered, falling to his knees and covering his mouth with dirty, worn hands. "My boy..." he whispered, over and over, hoping, praying for anything to come along and hear his petition for salvation.

"I'm not supposed to be anywhere near here or you, John Winchester, so make this fast," she said, her red eyes flashing down at him as if the fire from hell were burning behind the curtains of her now blue gaze.

Standing up, John glared at her, his eyebrows furrowed with a mixture of pain and desperation. "I need to make a deal," he speaks, hoping she would at least hear him out. "Please...please, I **need **to make a deal for my son," he begs, hands arms hanging limply at his sides. Stepping closer to her demonic face than he ever would without killing _it _in the past, he feels her hot breath against his cool skin and understands the predicament he's in.

John hears a quiet sigh, followed with a maniacal giggle and he knows: this demon bitch will do anything _but_ give him a deal. "Oh Johnny boy, you've reached the finish line and yet here you are, groveling at my feet. You're _son_, killed our ..."leader," and you want me to help **you **out?" Crossing her pale arms and piercing him with a heated glare, John's head falls against his chest, eyes now facing the ground on account of the mocking tone in her voice. He had expected this the moment he arrived here.

_"Please," _he whispers, fighting the overwhelming urge to slump down and beg on his hands and knees. "I...I can't let..."

The demon struts a fine-tuned circular pattern around John, her eyes burning the truth into his tortured soul: "you can't let him..._go_, can you?" She teases, a smile breaking her near perfect features. "Oh, poor daddy is left all alone...oh, but with his favorite son still alive? John you really should consider all the good that still remains; surely you see this?"

Stopping, she offers him her hands; nails painted a blood red, their appearance one that resembles that of the liquid fire in her eyes. "Don't be shy. Walk with me a moment," she says, her voice smooth and refined. Shaking his head, his eyebrows group together in a painful expression, and finally, his temper is lost.

"NO! Can you make a _fucking_ deal for me, or not?" John screams, pushing her hands away from his mid section, his face twisted in disgust. Tears now threatening to escape the boundaries of his strong will, but as surely as his rage surged, it diminishes, vanishing along with a mere whisper of the wind surrounding them.

"I... just," he says, one final time, one final plea; shoulders awkwardly hunched, his lungs barely taking in their full capacity. Lifting his gaze to meet her own, he sees her walk slowly to him, one finger tip placed on the bottom of his chin, almost as if she were seducing him. His eyes speak to her; begging for a resolution to the thousands of mistakes that lead him to this moment.

Her lips part open slowly, eyes closed, and for a split fraction of time, John nearly feels the kiss placed softly against his mouth. "No," she sighs, and he knows it's done. No deal. No chance.

Only his dead first born, lying on the steel springs of a mattress that time long ago had abandoned.

John's eyes flashed wide open as the stillness of the night enveloped him, the demon having disappeared and left him behind: the destruction of his conscience laced with the aftermath of his loss now waging their assault within him.

The hard truth that he would never see Dean alive again. Never shake his hand or piss him off. Never watch him from across an old motel room with the eyes of a proud father too frightened to share his secrets of _life_. Never hear him breathe. Laugh. Scream. Cry or curse. Nothing ever again.

John Winchester _never_ felt such monumental pressure towards the word 'forever,' but he knew now what it meant: the length of his life remaining until his own last breaths were taken and his war against regret and loss were ceased.

He knew it would be forever until he saw his son again, and it was all of his own doing.

XXXXX . XXXXX


End file.
